


i am calling you now (come and find me)

by beetle



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, But he'd trade every ounce of to have Scott instead, Companionable Snark, Confessions, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Drack is an awesome and reliable babysitter, F/F, Hopeful Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Major character suffers from chronic pain, Mentions of extreme physical pain, NPC Ryder, Nerve Damage, Not-so-companionable snark, Or so I've heard, Post-Game by about six years, Post-Game(s), Relationship Negotiation, Reyes Vidal has ALL the chill, Sara meddles, Scott Ryder has no chill, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, That MReyder Soulmark AU!!!, That's basically the AU bit--the Soulmates/Soulmarks thing, Touch, Touch-Starved, Unspecific "disorder", Vetra stays out of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27456301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: “do you hear? signal or sound from inside. are you here? i am calling you now to come and find me….”OR….In which Scott Ryder has accepted certain clear and established facts:Unlike his parents, he wasn’tbornwith a soulmark justwaitingto meet its equivalent and opposite rendered in flesh and melanin.Unlike his twin sister and best friend—Pathfinder, Extraordinaire—Sara Ryder, he would nevergrow a soulphrasethat tingled-itched-burned its way into existence across his skin the very momenthefell in love with a tall, gorgeous smuggler who was great with guns. And,Whether because of his increasingly lackluster social skills and personality, or because of the lingering aftermath of his torture at the Archon’s hands, there are at least ninety-two kajillion reasons why he’ll die as he was born and as he has lived.Namely, un-Marked, alone . . . and in intermittent agony.
Relationships: Male Ryder | Scott/Reyes Vidal, Vetra Nyx/Female Ryder | Sara
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	i am calling you now (come and find me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GingerAnn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerAnn/gifts), [littleleotas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleleotas/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Complications](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27405391) by [GingerAnn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerAnn/pseuds/GingerAnn). 



> **That MReyder Soulmate AU!** But I tweaked the trope of _soulmark/soulphrase that is written or appears on the skin_ and added this concept: _sometimes, rarely, soulmates aren’t preordained, but become soulmates over time._  
>   
>  Basically, it’s less fate, and more time, growth, and familiarity . . . that, yeah, maybe, owes a _wee_ debt to destiny. So, there. NPC-twin Scott Ryder. Title from [Shana Falana](https://shanafalana.com)’s [Come and Find Me](https://youtu.be/briUFONdCjs). Prompts in end notes.

and i wonder deeply

are you out there, around me?

and do you feel this aching?

do you find yourself wondering…?

* * *

Scott L. Ryder is already having a _Day_ , today, and it’s not even noon, yet.

He’s been having a Day since stepping out of his quarters at quarter-past ten, local.

Well, technically, he’s been having it since halfway through Sara’s secure comm about two hours ago.

(Said comm had at least been replete with Scott’s five years old niece and three years old nephew running in and out of view, chasing each other as part of some indecipherable, little-kid game they’d probably been negotiating on the fly. Said game had only paused for them to randomly shout a giggling: “HI, UNCLE SCOTT!”

Which, as always, had been more than enough to plaster Scott’s rare, semi-pained but _big_ smile on his face for a good several minutes. And that had resulted in the _same smile_ on Sara’s square, friendly face—only much less pained-looking—and probably for the rest of her busy, busy day.)

Actually . . . Scott L. Ryder’s been having a _Day_ for a lot longer than just this morning.

Technically, he’s been having a Life.

Though, as he stands with arms defiantly akimbo in Reyes Vidal’s VIP room in Tartarus—watching the man watch him while swilling scotch and _relaxing_ , and himself feeling like an awkward, knock-off Yul Brynner—Scott can easily acknowledge that in a Life _full_ of Days, _to_ -Day is shaping up to be a Real One.

But at least it’s also an Agony-Free one, so far.

Plus, the parts of it that had involved his call with Sara—and with Freyja and Tiber, and their joyous, nonsensical shenanigans—hadn’t been bad at all. Even if they’d resulted in him leaving his Spartan quarters to trek to a dive-ass bar, before noon.

As usual, Tartarus had been deserted when he’d arrived, but for one of the shift-bartenders _du jour_ —all of whom have long-since stopped noticing Scott’s coming and going at dead hours—and one other person, who practically calls the VIP room home.

Scott had stridden confidently through the main room, also as usual, thanks to the lack of bodies. Had he procrastinated making this last-minute appointment, he’d have had to meet Vidal at a far more populated time. That would have meant picking his careful, red-alert way around the edges of the main area, while meticulously avoiding any physical contact with _any_ surfaces or people.

Not an easy thing to do on a Friday, at the local _spot_.

So, today _is_ a Day, even though it’s not noon yet. But it’s the third agony-free day he’s had after weeks of an increasingly cranked-up _pain-spell_. One during which even his specially tailored and buffering under-armor had been feeling like fire ants on much of his skin from the beginning.

Then like weighty live coals.

Then . . . like a potential Med Bay-stay.

The analgesics and pain-deadening meds—time-release and _pro re nata_ —had been given a run for their money by the _end_ of that twenty-three-days spell.

Scott half-thinks said analgesics and meds had called it a day (haha) themselves, halfway through. He doesn’t blame them one bit. If he could he, too, would scarper on his agonizing, insistent, _dogshit_ nerve disorder. Especially when his life involves infrequent appointments with Reyes Vidal, for delivering intel that Scott _more than half-thinks_ Sara bigs-up (and Vidal probably does, too, at least a little) to give her disabled, reclusive, semi-shut-in of a twin something to do with his pain-free days.

Something _other_ than dread the always approaching pain- _full_ days, that is.

“. . . no reason to think he’s _still_ holding a grudge against The Charlatan, buuuut . . . an ounce of prevention is worth six systems of scrambling and ass-covering and dumb bullshit, as the saying goes,” Scott finishes, frowning, or probably glowering at Vidal’s mostly empty tumbler.

He can’t tell if Sara’s sympathy and optimistic attempts to keep him engaged are really just . . . clumsy pity. Or, if she _is_ genuinely worried about this Mr. _Who-Even-Cares-Bruh-Your-Shallow-Grave-Will-Go-Unmarked,_ hack mercenary and lame-wad _nobody_.

Regardless, this mercenary is not even _close_ to the scariest person to come gunning for The Charlatan this year . . . only the latest.

But Sara’s probably at least a _tiny bit_ for-real _concerned_ about it. Scott, himself, hates scrambling, and ass-covering and annoying bullshit even more than his sister does—and she’s the _Pathfinder_ —and he especially hates when those states and situations can easily turn and bite the people he cares for in the soft bits, too.

Not that he makes a habit of including Reyes Vidal in that small group. But _Sara does_ , so, by extension. . ..

And, as necessary evils go, _The Charlatan_ is barely a blip on Sara’s or the Nexus’s Dangerous Shit-o-meter, even if _Reyes Vidal_ is a rather persistent and notable one on _Scott’s_. But he supposes the annoyance-vacuum left by Vidal’s absence—and the _power_ -vacuum left by The Charlatan’s absence—would likely make way for something far more annoying. And more dangerous. Something that would eschew Vidal’s mostly affable manner and _The Charlatan’s_ smarts, enlightened pragmatism, and affinity for a relatively just order, and just go H.A.M. on Heleus.

That’s worth all kinds of shudder, after meeting—and defeating—the Kett.

“Forewarned _is_ forearmed, or so I’ve heard bandied about,” Vidal agrees, mild and amused. Scott’s gaze ticks from the tumbler to Vidal’s face. The usual smug smirk is firmly affixed and his eyes—a medium brown that’s often as shifty and unpredictable as their bearer—don’t glint green or even hazel in the dim, equalizing light of the VIP room, as they do in sunlight.

Scott straightens his posture to a precision that’s closer to parade-rest than to regulation. His arms are still akimbo not just for those sweet Yul Brynner-points, but for a minimal amount of pressure on a minimal amount of _him_ that arms-at-sides no longer offers.

This soon, post-spell, even the light pressure of his own arms at his own sides has been known to dump his ass right back in the shit for several extra days. So, he’s not taking any chances.

“True. But even so, this sounds like something The Charlatan could take care of in his deepest sleep,” Scott says dryly. That smirk deepens and Vidal bats his eyes.

“You flatter me, Ryder. But if the Pathfinder finds such intel worth passing along to me on her wife’s birthday, I’d be foolish to pay it _no_ credence.”

“Ah, _shit_ ,” Scott blurts without thinking, and shakes his head. His overshirt—which is front fastening, possessed of a nearly chin-high collar, and totally hides the buffering under-armor that both irritates his nerve endings constantly _and_ protects them from even worse irritants and stimuli—impacts his beard and jaw three times. Feather-light, and barely noticeable . . . or would have been, once upon a time.

Once upon a time before Scott had tangoed with the Archon.

Now, it’s more than striking enough in terms of discomfort to distract him from the realization that he’s gone full-hermit _once again_ , and lost track of an important family-related Day.

Once again.

As hints of pain-lightning arc lazily across and through, and illuminate the contents of Scott’s skull, from eyes to sinuses to mouth to hair to teeth he measures his breathing ruthlessly. He lets the suggestion of agony arc down into his armored neck and spine, then fade into the rest of him as grumbling, discomfiting echoes. . . .

Disaster averted. Though, he can only hope he hasn’t hissed or some other dramatic, stupid pain-reaction. Not that it’d take even such a broad and readable response for _The Charlatan_ to figure out what had just occurred.

It wouldn’t be the first time Scott’s failed to stifle, if not hide such a tell around Reyes Vidal. After the first and last time he’d _utterly_ failed to do so, he’s learned to be fanatically diligent.

_Vigilant_.

“. . . no shortage of volunteers to babysit Freyja and Tiber, even on very short notice,” Vidal says as if having not noticed whatever pain-reaction Scott might have let slip.

As ever—and but for that _one_ time—Vidal’s discretion in this arena is also diligent. And pretty fucking seamless.

“Yeah. Ah . . . yeah. From what Sara tells me, Nakmor Drack’s always available for babysitting duty at a moment’s notice. He’s apparently the most murderous, protective, and cuddly godfather in the galaxy. Go figure.” Scott snorts and shrugs. He doesn’t much follow Sara’s Meridian-life beyond Vetra and the kids, and general goings-on regarding the Tempest crew. But he couldn’t be _more_ grateful that _the_ Nakmor Drack’s another layer of love and protection for Sara’s small, young family . . . since Sara’s _twin brother_ can’t be.

Though, knowing Sara, she’s made countless loyal friends and hangers-on who’d protect the kids with their lives, never mind spot-babysit the sweet and _energetic_ little hellions.

Once upon a time—even farther back than the damned _Archon_ —Scott had been a lot like his sister, if not as persistently, effortlessly extroverted.

Unfortunately, having had nearly every nociceptor in his body—even the least sensitive ones—be cranked up to ELEVEN …TY-BILLION on a one to ten agony scale _forever_ , had changed his general mood, manner, and disposition greatly.

Just over six years since the loss of any consistent tolerance for most physical contact . . . even errant breezes, changes in air pressure and humidity and weather, certain sounds measured in decibels . . . the barest brush of living skin against his own. . . .

That loss had changed . . . everything.

Absolutely everything.

Now, even Sara _—_ outgoing and ridiculously kind _Sara_ —can’t reliably win a smile from him, these days. No one can, except Freyja and Tiber. And sometimes, even those smiles look more like grimaces and suppressed sobs than any expression of happiness. But hopefully the kids are still too young to really tell the difference.

But it certainly helps that even though Scott has only infrequently seen his niece and nephew in person, he’s never once hugged either of them—never risked even a pain-cascade, let alone a days-long spell.

None of his memories and knowledge of Sara’s children, his precious-perfect niece and nephew, will ever be tainted by even one brief iota of agony. Nor will _their memories_ of their absentee-Uncle Scott be tainted with _seeing_ that uncle scream and retch and _sob_ like a crazy-person. Just because he was given a hug or bumped his leg on the wrong-damn-day. 

Never. Not if Scott can continue helping it.

He holds that non-optimal fact and determination dearer than any belief or knowledge he’s ever known. Even though that fact makes the sensory-echo of knife-driven-down-into-his-skull agony increase for some reason, it also makes his heart hurt less.

And more, too. But . . . life’s about figuring out which trade-offs are worth it and this one definitely is.

“… credit for your thoughts, Ryder?”

Scott blinks, and herds his attention back to the present and practical. “As if you _wouldn’t_ then— _somehow_ —stick me with your ludicrous tabs at every bar in Heleus and recoup that credit-loss five million-fold. I, at least, _do not_ make _Charlatan_ -bank. I can’t afford to try out-bluffing the likes of Reyes Vidal.”

Humming, Vidal sits forward and reaches for his glass. At the last moment, however, he seems to change his mind, because the reaching hand settles gracefully on his knee. His eyes are bright and engaged—more so than they’d been through the probably pointless debriefing.

“Ryder . . . you are as captivating and delightful as you are touchy and prickly,” he notes. His gaze holds Scott’s intently, even as the emotive tenor of the stare changes: the usual amusement and poise become something that’s more gentle _and_ more intense, if less quantifiable. “That only becomes more evident with time, familiarity, and trust shared.”

Scott’s brows shoot up. “Uhhh … -huh. Three things, though: Your comparison is logically faulty in both directions. We’re not familiars, since we barely spend any time together. And I wouldn’t _trust you_ with my wallet if all that was in it was a photo of my sister’s pet _kaerkyn_ and a voucher for free fro-yo.”

The flicker and flash of Vidal’s eyes when he shifts, and the dim lighting hits them from a slightly different angle, is . . . striking. “Why, Ryder, are you implying that _I_ would steal, hyperbolize, or . . . _lie_?”

Scott’s mouth purses slightly. “ _Imply_ , as a verb, isn’t nearly verb-enough to accurately describe what I was doing. But flat-out denouncing you as full of shit probably isn’t the _done_ thing in these parts. And it wouldn’t have any effect on you, either.”

“Well. That, at least, is entirely and provably true.” Vidal’s brows quirk and his smirk warms. “As for the rest, I must regrettably demur. You _are_ captivating . . . no, _poignantly_ _enchanting_.”

Scott doesn’t respond outwardly, at least not immediately. Internally . . . his recently jangled stomach is starting to churn nervously and his nerve endings are starting to tingle and _itch_.

He has it on good authority—and has for some years, now—that in general, he’s neutrally not-unpleasant but not necessarily _pleasant._ _Non-emotive_ and _matter of fact_ are some of the kinder descriptors he’s heard. And he knows he can be flat-out _off-putting_ when he lacks the reserves to nudge his behavior and facial expressions even to the point of _neutral not-unpleasantness_ that best masks his near-constant state of low-grade pain. And, sometimes, not-so-low-grade agony.

The consistent hyperbolizing on Vidal’s capricious part—probably, it’s just _bald-faced lying_ —about Scott’s affect and general self-presentation is always distressing. Always and increasingly. Sometimes it’s as mentally and emotionally excruciating and exhausting as the hinterlands of a pain-spell, when every nerve in Scott’s body decides to play hardball instead of cricket.

_Vidal’s persistence_ and Scott’s . . . tangled-up reactions to that persistence are just confusing, unnecessary _agony_ , and Scott’s never looking to buy or borrow more of _that_ , please-thank-you-and-kindly-fuck-off.

When he continues to not respond—continues to not know _how_ to respond—Vidal’s expressive eyebrows quirk up even more and _remain_ decidedly _up_. Scott finally says the thing he’s _been_ saying in Reyes Vidal’s general _and_ specific direction for four-plus years:

“Stop flirting with me, Vidal.”

“I must demur again, Ryder. Apologies.” When Scott’s glower doubles down, Vidal shrugs. “If you haven’t convinced me to stop by now, you probably never will.”

Scott eyes are starting to feel like they’re throbbing . . . just like the rest of his skull. The impersonal banter they’d perfected—of necessity, at least for Scott—is starting to go awry in a way it hasn’t, in . . . _over four_ years. It’s time to cut whatever this is shaping up to be off at the knees. “Look, your _two-plus-purple equals corned beef hash_ -logic doesn’t follow. And your weird attempts to be . . . suave? Whatever. They’re heavy-handed and tiresome. Quit before you lose even more ground in our _purely transactional_ association. I play the part of an unnecessary go-between, ferrying useless and infrequent intel from Sara, to you, _entirely_ at _her_ insistence. Not because of _you_ or anything else.”

Vidal smiles—an _actual smile_ that’s as unlike his usual smarmy smirk as a prince is from a pig. “Flirting when I shouldn’t, with intriguing and enchanting people . . . people who strongly pique my interest and _keep it_ , is who I am, Ryder. Being so has gotten me into trouble—and into _many_ _other_ lovely places, besides—for the better part of forty years. My bad habits have been reinforced by rewards and profit of various kinds. But even if they hadn’t been . . . I’ve never been what _anyone_ would call a _quitter_. Certainly not when the stakes are so breathtakingly high.”

“Uh-huh. Admitting you have a problem is a decent _first_ step, anyway. Keep following through on the next eleven, then lather, rinse, and repeat,” Scott says, stepping over whatever Vidal’s alluding to with poisonous passive aggression and positivity. It barely gives cover to a tired, exasperated sigh. He slowly lets go of that that akimbo-posture and the shift of his under-armor makes _some_ of his skin want to crawl and the rest of it want to _scream_. But Scott himself does not scream. He’s long-since learned the futility of _those_. “Until a next time I really _hope_ doesn’t come too soon but probably will . . . _adios_ , Vidal.”

Vidal affects a disbelieving and wounded countenance that’s far more bathos than pathos, but still stupidly arresting. _Everything_ about Reyes Vidal, from each individual atom, to all of those atoms combined, is . . . stupidly arresting. Though, _none_ of the _stupid_ -part is Vidal’s, that’s for sure. “You can also be as cruel as you are beautiful. But it only fuels my fascination, I must admit.”

Scott does not roll his eyes—and _won’t_ , if he can help it . . . not before the prickly pain-waves ebb more—but he can feel a circlet of sledgehammering torment hovering near his furrowed brow. “I’ll take that compliment as the polar opposite of the way you probably intended it. Later days, Charlatan.”

He turns to leave and Vidal sighs again. It’s soft but tired. Genuine. It sounds like a century of tension that’s releasing because its bearer simply doesn’t have the resources to support it for the next little while.

“Ryder . . . _Scott_ . . . as fond as I am of a good, long chase, how much _longer_ do you intend to make me run? How much further do _you_ intend to _run from me?_ And do you even remember _why_ you’re running, at this point?”

Despite the foolish, heartless nature of the question, or maybe _because of it_ , there’s a sudden, dinning roar in Scott’s ears for a few moments. There and gone so quickly, it doesn’t cause him any pain and even puts distance between himself and his current pain.

When he’s mostly reined himself in, he turns toward Vidal. His left cheek is ticking minutely, but it’s probably still noticeable to someone as details oriented as _Reyes Vidal_.

“Don’t blame _your_ stubborn refusal to take a goddamn hint on _me_ ,” he grits, even though doing so makes the nerves endings in his teeth, gums, jaw, and neck whimper and beg. He averts his eyes then closes them for a few seconds. “I fucking _told you_. You’ve _seen_ what happens when . . . when I get how I _get_. I’ve never lied to you about that—at least not since I stopped lying to myself. _So, don’t fucking blame me for problems you keep creating_. Your masochism or sadism, or what-the-fuck- _ever_ compels you to flirt with and chase-after a . . . a _whatever_ it is you think you want with me. With a man for whom physical contact of any kind can be fucking _torture_. You wanna have a _conversation_ about _beautiful and cruel, Reyes_? You primed for some _real_ honesty, at last, Charlatan?”

In the echoing, empty silence that lingers after that—empty, but for Scott’s harsh breathing—Vidal’s keen, attentive gaze on Scott feels like needles in some places. Like knives in others.

“No. I don’t want you to hurt me under the guise of _honesty_. And I don’t wish to hurt _you_ under that same guise,” Vidal admits, sounding tired, once more. Too quiet and too loud. Too soft and too raw. Too goddamn unshielded and _earnest_. More croaking than convincing, which is the _only_ time Scott finds the man _irrefutably convincing_. “Is this where it must forever remain, then? Two people whose desires and emotions are reciprocated and _aligned_ —if not particularly convenient and painless to express or cope with—but who are doomed to linger and languish _because of_ the determination and unwavering constancy of those desires and emotions?”

Really, Scott has few defenses against an _honest and plain-speaking_ —relative to his own baseline, of course—Reyes Vidal.

But then, it’s never easy to defend against something one adamantly refuses to believe exists.

“Do you intend to go the rest of your life giving up on _holding onto_ good things and _fighting to keep_ all the _worst_ things? Resisting _all_ efforts and tries at comfort and reaching out . . . at _happiness,_ made on your behalf by those who care for you and for whom you care?” Vidal stands slowly and deliberately, skirts his table and tumbler, then crosses the space between them step by individual step. “Let me be clear: I don’t believe you _want_ to. Not at all. But I believe you might and very well _would_. That you _will_ , Ryder . . . perhaps because you’re so used to living in a miserable, secluded half-life and fear change even if it could be for the better. Or, perhaps, you simply wish to spite us both for me being right and calling you out.”

“I _am_ feeling remarkably spiteful toward you right now, yes,” Scott agrees with an intentionally mild manner that might even pass for graciousness . . . were the observer someone a hell of a lot less perceptive than The Charlatan. He punctuates his affirmative with the sort of unhurried, utterly unironic blink he’s become known for, as well as two pointed steps backwards. Toward the door. “That much, at least is true. It’s the _truest_ thing for parsecs in _every_ direction, Vidal. You always manage to bludgeon that sort of feeling right out of me, even when I _ask you not to_.”

“I’ll bet I bring out a _lot_ of feelings that you’d rather ignore until they or you turned to dust,” Vidal further agrees, off Scott’s venomous courtesy, but with no venom of his own. And no courtesy, either—merely that same plain candor. His own manner, though still grave, is sardonic, too. And still warm.

Still. . ..

Still getting closer.

And closer, still.

Once upon those _old times_ Scott Ryder can _barely_ remember, he had been a _fighter_ . . . towering and tough, and a conditioned and controlled, unhesitating juggernaut of a soldier. He’d been unafraid of and undaunted by any trials and pains and _risks_ courted because he’d known how and when to brace himself. He’d had goddamn resources—seemingly endless ones!—to resist any attempts to compromise him or break him.

And those attempts hadn’t usually been hugely out-of-proportion. On the occasions when they had been, it hadn’t mattered—had only been an exercise in patience and bearing up under. After all . . . pain could be tremendous. A true suffering-crucible. But it’d also been simple. _Finite_. In some timeframe or other, pain always ended for keeps and Scott would move on. And he’d also accepted that at some point, “moving on” might even mean . . . dying.

It’d never occurred to that sweet summer-dumbass that he could end up in tremendous pain that would grow and grow . . . _without_ killing him far sooner than his natural lifespan.

That old Scott hadn’t known that the-rest-of-his-long-and-natural-life could even be _possible_ as a timeframe for any pain _he’d_ experience. That agony could become the baseline for his existence and that, as Ryders have always been known to do, he’d _still_ have to carry on. _And carry on_.

And adjust to and accept that escalating torment and the perseverance it would require to crawl out of it over and over and over . . . could become his entire life. That unending misery could, after everything, be the tale of him.

_Old-Scott_ had had _no fucking idea_ that he’d end up living life in a body for which the wrong stimulus on the wrong day would leave him agonized and immobile. For tormented hours that would feel like years, when he’s lucky.

Or for days that would feel like _eternities_ of merciless torture, when he isn’t.

Old-Scott Ryder had been a naïve nimrod and _this_ Scott Ryder has grown to hate him at least as much as he envies him. . ..

And Vidal is now close enough that Scott can feel the ghost of his body-heat on the few inches of bare skin he can’t reasonably cover.

Old-Scott might have been prepared for that sort of pleasant sensitivity . . . for the prospect of maybe being kissed. But definitely not for the rest. He couldn’t have even conceived of such a monstrous set of trade-offs as the ones that would await him on the best of his future days.

“Ryder,” Vidal murmurs, rough and intimate. Breathless and frustrated-sounding. His eyes are the unfairly emotive tarpits they’ve always been . . . multiplied by infinity, and when Scott takes another step back, Vidal takes one forward. It’s both thrilling _and_ unnverving, but far more unnerving.

Scott’s been here before, after all.

“My last pain-spell isn’t even a _week_ behind me. _Please_ , don’t touch me. Please, don’t . . . don’t set off another pain-cascade,” Scott begs, quiet and stiff—anxiously braced for a devastating impact . . . which is _all_ impacts. And has been for the past several years since the _last time_ a person who was not a medical professional had touched him.

Taking a breath that he’d like to be steadying—and it’s very much _not_ —he now tries to take another step back from that person, relieved when his actual back doesn’t hit the wall.

He’s already coping with more pain from this particular day than he’d been prepared to withstand.

Vidal doesn’t match Scott for that step this time, huffing out a small breath and frowning. His gaze is more solemn than ever, but gentler than ever, too. Shining and concerned and _fierce_ , despite that gentility. He lifts his right hand and lets it settle over his heart. “Even _agony_ isn’t eternally insurmountable, Scott. _I promise you that_. And I can be _endlessly_ determined and creative when it comes to those who occupy my heart. _You_ occupy this entire—”

“Christ, just . . . _shut up_ , okay? Shut. _Up_!” Scott shouts, maybe _screams_ , over the rest of what Vidal is saying. He can’t really parse the nuance of his own exclamation because that dinning roar is back in his ears. It’s different than Scott’s usual pain-fare and he doesn’t have any idea how to neutralize the sensation.

He shoulders past Vidal—in the sense that he leads the motion with his shoulder, just as he once would have. (And Vidal is quick enough and kind enough to take pity on him and get out of the way . . . so Scott doesn’t have to risk the probably-painful follow-through of impact.)

But neither aggressive posturing nor aggravating din prevents Vidal from finishing his thought or Scott from hearing it. He glares down at Vidal’s tumbler, trying to control his . . . everything.

When he feels as if he could almost pass muster, he turns to Vidal again. The other man is simply watching Scott, but with far more concern than ever. Scott shakes his head in negation. In a clearly telegraphed: _BACK OFF_. He barely notices the everyday agony of his collar disturbing his starting-to-look-grown-out beard. Though he would sooner and _much more_ happily miss the way tangential agony spreads through his breastbone and the muscle padding it. The tingle-itch-burn digs voraciously into the high-left of his pectoral muscle even as the sensation on the high-right sinks into confused, rapidly cooling silence.

“Pretty words . . . you’ve always got lots of those,” he tells Vidal, somewhat startled at the lost sadness of tone, when he’d expected bitter annoyance. “But I’d just be another notch on your bedpost, in the end—a bit more of a challenge than your usual fare, but no more significant than that. Novelty, even the novelty of bagging the one guy you couldn’t bag for _years_ —couldn’t even _touch_ —would wear off sooner, rather than later.”

Vidal is the one scowling now, and the flash in his eyes speaks more of ferocity than gentility. “Do you really, after all this time and, yes, familiarity, think no more or better of me than _that_? Than the most obvious mask I wear, and which I don’t even take off anymore for anyone . . . except _you_?”

Scott winces and takes another step back, only barely stops himself from scratching his burning-itching chest. _Not_ mindlessly, reflexively scratching any old itch—literally and figuratively—is something he’s honed to a fine art and discipline. Through that, he’s learned that even the worst itch is better than escalating agony.

Especially since itches go away a lot faster.

“I think that you have far less to lose when it comes to _fucking around and finding out_ on certain matters, than I do. I think that _you think_ the pain that a brok—that a break-up can cause is relatively negligible. _But it’s not to me_.” Scott’s breathing is turning into panting again. Possibly into a panic attack, which isn’t an unknown occurrence when he’s already in the middle of a pain-spell and on the cusp of it maybe getting spectacularly _bad_. “ _No pain is or can be_ negligible to me anymore. I can’t afford to run up my pain-bill or test the limits over some _dumb-damned-dalliance_ that _you’ll_ get bored with in a week or a month and _I’ll_ be left with a check I can’t cover. Because _my pain-bills_ get geometrically larger and larger over time . . . and my funds only get fewer and fewer. I don’t even have the pain-tolerance or forbearance of a stoic toddler. _Do you get that?_ That _every moment of agony I experience_ takes away from my resilience and my _determination_ to bear up under the pain to come? That there are whole _weeks_ when every scrap of movement I manage _wants_ to be toward my old Hurricane. Or a utility knife. Or a bottle of goddamned drain cleaner because _any shitty death_ is better than a long lifetime of _this_?”

After searching Vidal’s wide, floored gaze for something he isn’t sure he wants to find, for long enough to take a breath that doesn’t feel particularly sustaining, Scott’s soon back to panting and ranting. “You have _no idea_ how many close calls I’ve had, Vidal. All _you know_ is that one time . . . the time right after the shady, handsome guy I’d had a heart-on for since _the day we met,_ _finally_ noticed I was alive and _did_ _something_ about it. And that something felt _amazing_. Better than _anything_ . . . until it set off the worst and longest pain-cascade I’d had to date. And even after I got out of stasis in the Med Bay weeks later . . . just seeing this guy was the definition of agony for the longest time. Mostly just emotional agony, but not always. Sometimes, even I can’t separate the two anymore.”

Scott stops himself before he says more. But from the still gobstruck look on Vidal’s face, Scott’s already said way too much.

“ _Fuck_. I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t mean to heap all that on you, Vidal. That was a dick-move and I’m sorry,” he begins, then clears his throat. This time, when Vidal takes a step closer, Scott matches him again, but only to maintain the same distance. Not increase it. They both sigh, though Vidal’s is kind, where Scott’s is exasperated. “And I don’t . . . I _don’t_ think you’re a shallow person, okay? I don’t dislike you or even distrust you—I never have. I think you’re a good man. A far better one than you know, actually. But _I know_ you don’t know what you’re trying to get into, here. And that no matter how hard we _both_ try, you could never, _never_ _not hurt me_.”

Scott looks down, wishing he dared to even settle a hand on his burning chest. Even just slight pressure might help to quell the fiery sensation that’s coalesced from twitching muscle to just under prickling skin. Or it might have, if Scott’s nerves and brain weren’t so complicated and completely fucked.

“Just because you mean well doesn’t mean that all’s well that ends well. And I’m _so tired_ of pain that never gets better, only worse. Pain that keeps coming back and never stays gone.” Scott’s words and tone are not pleading for understanding—they never have. But his eyes might be. His current level of poker-face never includes his damn eyes. Not for Sara or Vetra, and not for Reyes-fucking-vidal. “I _barely_ have enough wherewithal to keep fighting against the pain I know now. _Without_ the fun extras. But you think adding frustration, anxiety . . . and _heartache_ , however incidental, would be a helpful thing?”

Vidal sighs once more, heavy and weary. But his gaze . . . is also unwavering and unshielded again. “I . . . think it wouldn’t be an _addition_ of heartache, but the subtraction of it,” he says, earnest and reasonable. Scott snorts.

“Fine, then, Semantic Superman . . . heart- _break_ ,” he corrects, though it feels more like the utmost scouring of his battered soul and the darkest corners of his tired heart. “However fleeting.”

Vidal takes a step closer and another. Until Scott can feel his body-heat again—the bright-focused _energy_ of him like a roaring fire on a cold night. (And he smells like good whisky and old-fashioned cologne. Scott knows _which_ good whisky but has never had the stones to ask _which_ old-fashioned cologne. But only because he’s _pretty sure_ even just asking would reveal how stupid and _weak_ he goes for it . . . when combined with the scent of Vidal’s _skin_.) “I think your heart aches because it’s broken. And that it _broke_ from so much prolonged aching, too. A crushing ouroboros of agony that you’ve _never_ earned and could never deserve. I _don’t_ want to make what you already bear . . . _worse_. I want to help ease it. To lighten it, if I can, and help you bear it.”

“You can’t,” Scott says with more regret and despair than he’s felt recently. And unlike any hurt he’s felt, save three times before. The first time had been when listening to the story of how his mother and father had revealed their soulmarks to each other.

The second time had been when Scott had woken up weeks after Sara had kicked the Kett’s collective ass _dodecahedral_ then sent them packing. Among all the latest goings-on and catching up she’d blurted that she and Vetra Nyx had both manifested their soulphrases just before the big battle.

They’d only been waiting for Scott to wake up to set a date.

The third time he’d felt this mixture of defeat, desperation, and despair—on the heels of a moment of incandescent joy attached to someone he loves—had been after the incident with Vidal had happened almost five years ago. And it had continued, unabated, until . . ..

Suffice it to say, if Scott owned a watch, he’d be checking it for the time down to the current second.

Really, he’s given up on achieving his own version of happily ever after, with the tall, sexy, well-armed smuggler-soldier of _his_ dreams. He’s come to accept certain clear and established facts and truths about himself, and the projected course of his gone-askew life.

He _accepts_ that he’ll die as he was born and as he’s lived: un-Marked and alone. And in intermittent and growing agony.

But even that truth and the acceptance of it is easy to forget—to rail against—in the advent of this warm, strong, _tempting_ _embodiment of irrational hope_ so close to his own.

Scott hasn’t been this close to anyone who isn’t a doctor in years, and he _knows_ he should brace himself for pain—the pain of touch or the pain of avoiding it—or simply get the hell _away_. But he _can’t_. Because for now . . . there’s no pain, only that warmth and strength. Only a human being who _wants_ to touch him and without the usual sterile accompaniment of prodding or tests.

There’re only those things, and the intensifying fire above his heart and . . . and maybe _in it_ , too.

Vidal has gotten very close. Three small steps and he’ll be standing on Scott’s booted feet.

His bright-pretty brown eyes are . . . are. . . .

Whatever they are, Scott finds himself looking away again. Staring at the same spot on Vidal’s chest that aches and burns on his own.

He’s quite used to agony—which this chest-pain is _not_ —but he’s never felt such a strange, electric-thrill burn before . . . throbbing faster and faster with the frightened heart it’s out to subvert.

“I _don’t_ promise that I’ll _never_ hurt you and that you will _never_ feel pain again, Scott,” Vidal says, somber and sad and regretful. But only for a few moments, before his tone turns as fierce as his gaze had been. As determined as _Scott_ has ever been. “I _do_ promise that as long as there’s breath in me, I _will_ be there and do my best to soothe and comfort you, and help you put yourself back together. It _would_ _be_ my great honor to be and do those things for you in perpetuity. To take care of the only man I . . . the only man who makes me feel as if I’m flying and dying even when my feet are on the most secure _terra firma_ I know.”

“Your two favorite things, right after an aged bottle of Mount Milgrom: flying and thrills,” Scott says, meaning to leaven the intensity with a joke, but his tone sounds choked and creaky. “Look, I can’t even promise you that I won’t scream whenever you touch me, Vidal,” he adds, though he hadn’t meant to—hadn’t even had any idea of what _to_ say in response to _Reyes Vidal’s honesty_. “In the end, you’d get sick of a lover you can’t even touch. You _would_ , and no shade to you for it, because . . . who _wouldn’t_ get sick of that waking-fucking-nightmare of a life? Where even kisses, cuddling, and hand-holding could turn into _screams and sedation and hospitalization_?”

“Ryder, none of the cons you keep bringing up make the pro that is _you_ less than worth it. Nothing could. _There is no con that makes you less than_. . . everything.” Vidal’s the one to search Scott’s eyes, now. He sighs when he doesn’t see whatever he hopes to find there and his shoulders sag for a moment. His face looks _older_ until he closes his eyes and effortfully calms himself . . . then squares-up with determination once again. His gaze is direct and sharp and ready to catch any form of bullshit. “Are you having a spell, now? Are you _in pain_ , or especially sensitive? _Right now_?”

“Uh.” Scott deflates, puzzled at the seeming change of subject. Vidal’s eyes are still fierce. Commanding. “I’m . . . post-spell by a few days. Everything’s still sort of sensitive, but not _super_ -sensitive. Skin’s irritated, muscles are sore, and I’m freezing-ass-cold to my marrow. _You know_ : ESS-ESS, DEE-DEE, relative to _my_ sensitivity levels. Why?”

Vidal smiles briefly, commiserative, and fond. But he turns somber and grim once more, in the space of a blink. “I . . . would like you to know something about myself which I have found terrifying, ridiculous, self-defeating, and self-indulgent, at turns. And all at once. And so many more things besides. But mostly, I’ve found this self-knowledge perplexing and impractical. _Dangerous_ and irrational and primordial. _Terrifying_. My every instinct shouts at me to _never_ tell a soul. To _never_ let this . . . Achilles heel be known. And I have heeded that for four years, now.”

Scott shivers. _Shudders_ , and wonders if this knowledge is going to be something Sara needs to get her _official_ ears and eyes on. He’s never seen Vidal so serious when he wasn’t defending himself, his people, and his _interests_ from . . . hostile takeovers of chilling stripe. “What is it? Are you . . . is it—” he makes a vague, jazzhands-y flailing gesture that even he can’t quite decipher.

Vidal’s smile comes back to claim twice the acreage but quickly forfeits all the mirth. “Nothing like that, Ryder. No,” Vidal says, taking a deep breath and a few steps back. Then a few more.

As Scott watches, the other man methodically removes a few pieces of his light, streamlined armor from his arms, then removes his chestplate. When his most obvious defenses are sitting in a neat pile on the floor to his right, Vidal undoes the fastenings of his shirt.

“Um,” Scott says, creaking once more and utterly breathless, his gaze skittering away, then back. Then away.

Then _back_.

By the time his eyes decide valor is the better part of discretion, the shirt is open and off. On the floor in a gray puddle of synthetic fabric.

Not that Scott or his eyes care. They’re glued to one spot and one spot _only_ for the foreseeable future.

“ _Please, don’t stop_ ,” Scott says. _Reads_ , from the line of barely legible cursive scrawled on the skin over Reyes Vidal’s heart. “ _You feel so good. Don’t stop touching me, Reyes. Not ever._ ”

And as Scott stares and stares, reads and re-reads, Vidal . . . _Reyes_ , stands still and silent, as if awaiting judgment. Until Scott’s breaths once more start sounding like whistling pants.

“You . . . remember, I take it?” Reyes asks hesitantly, his body orienting slightly toward Scott, though he doesn’t take a single step closer.

“Saying that? No, I don’t,” Scott says, hitching a tiny, _terrified_ giggle as Reyes’s face falls. He wishes he were lying and that he _did_ _remember_. He doesn’t even think about stopping the hand drifting up to his own chest, high on the left side, and settling there with firm, insistent pressure. He only just notices that the itchy-hot tingle-thrill immediately starts to abate. “I don’t remember saying that, but I know I must have. Because I remember how it felt to _feel that way._ I felt it the moment you took my hand. Then, even more when you k-kissed me. And then… .” _and then my entire life_ really _went to Hell and fucking stayed there_.

Reyes’s smile is back and brighter than ever and maybe trembling just a bit. “ _I remember_ stealing that first kiss and the sound you made when I did . . . so sweet and hungry and surprised. _Happy_. No one had ever been so overjoyed to receive a simple kiss _from me_. And when you begged me to . . . to _never_ stop touching you,” he says quietly, and the chuckle that follows is self-mocking, “I became _yours_ in that moment and for all the subsequent moments. Even though I didn’t know it, then. Even though I was too lost in kissing you to think that the odd and alarming burning-sensation near my heart was anything other than perfectly in-keeping with that moment. With the startling, breathtaking, flying-dying _rush_ of being with you. Near you. That’s a feeling only certain types of aircraft and _you_ , have ever inspired in me. And you had the aircraft beat by a country-mile.

“Then you gasped and pulled away. You were shaking and moaning and weeping.” The smile falters and Reyes looks down for most of a minute before meeting Scott’s gaze again. “I thought you were having a panic attack or a flashback. But when I tried to comfort you . . . when I _touched you again_. . . .”

“I started screaming,” Scott finishes for him, grim and stolid and regretful. Above all else . . . regretful.

“Yes.” Reyes nods and takes another step closer. Then another, when Scott doesn’t step back. Hopefully, he can’t tell that Scott’s been subconsciously listing forward, hoping to catch another whiff of old-fashioned cologne and clean, warm skin. “Even more horrifying than realizing that I’d fallen quite deeply in love without meaning to, was watching the person I unexpectedly adored be assailed, out of the blue, by agony and fear that could not be calmed or comforted by my words or my touch or my presence. I find that to still be the case. Such knowledge still horrifies and terrifies me. It's the worst knowledge I've ever had to live with, to date.”

“I’m sorry, Reyes. _So sorry_. You’ll never know how sorry because . . . there aren’t even words for that kind of remorse. That . . . regret. But those words over your heart . . . they _don’t_ have to be _mine_.” Scott shakes his head again. “Probably everyone you’ve _ever_ touched has said those words to you, Vidal. And again, no shade to you. Because anybody else’s words— _everybody_ else’s words would be better on you than mine. I’m _sorry_ that it’s _you_. No, I’m sorry that _you_ think _it’s me_. _You_ don’t deserve _that_ ,” he grits, fast and suddenly near tears he has to fight to hold back.

He succeeds—at this point, the only thing that forces tears out of him is at least several days of escalating physical agony—but it doesn’t feel like success should. It feels dark and stifling and claustrophobic.

It feels cold and nebulous and cancerous in his chest and around his heart. It makes him miss the burning-itching of before. The hurt of _that_ had felt cleaner and hopeful, somehow.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to say again, already striding past Reyes. _Running away yet again_ , he supposes. And as he does, his unwise fingers once more dig into the flesh above his aching, rabbiting heart.

Reyes’s eyes narrow in suspicion . . . then widen in sudden shock and understanding. He instinctively reaches out to stop Scott with a touch as he passes, then catches himself with an exasperated swear.

Scott flinches and hunches his tense, aching shoulders, but covers it with a forced and meaningless chuckle. The sort that he’d normally follow with something like: _You kiss your one-night stands with that mouth, Vidal?_ But he feels like an angry Xenomorph is about to rage-punch its way through his upper chest. Just breathing and getting himself out of the VIP room is a big enough pair of Everests, never mind useless snark.

“Ryder,” Reyes begins, curt, stony, and no-nonsense, “I didn’t share these things—the best, as well as the most terrifying moments of my existence, for a stammered apology from you, or to further break your heart. _Or_ to send you scurrying off into the rest of your life of wounded denial and despair, with _even less_ hope than you have now.”

At the exit, Scott waves it open and pauses. Reyes’s voice isn’t raised, but it’s clear and firm and still so earnest. It demands things of Scott that he doesn’t fully understand and probably doesn’t have. “The best-laid plans of mice and men, Vidal. I won’t say I’m sorry anymore if that bothers you. But take it as writ that I _am_. I haven’t been anything but for long time, now.”

“ _Stop running_ , Scott. _Stay_.”

And Scott, already with one foot across the threshold of the VIP room and the rest of his life . . . obeys.

“Why tell me _any_ of that stuff, Reyes, if guilt and regret and mortification . . . _despair_ . . . _aren’t_ the responses you want? Because that’s all I’ve got, besides a bunch of pathetic-ass _sorry, Vidal_ s. Gold standard ESS-ESS, DEE-DEE.”

“I told you because, as you so perceptively pointed out, our dynamic has _always_ been a transactional one, when it works best. I shared a part of myself that I find problematic and character inconsistent. Vexingly, _embarrassingly_ _primitive_ , to boot . . . yet undeniably compelling. _Momentous_. And so, I expect a _return_ on that investment.”

Scott turns to face Reyes again, completely lost. Reyes has once more silently halved the distance between them. His expression is one of cool resolve. “What could I possibly give you to make up for any of this, Vidal?”

Now, that usual smug smirk makes a slow, satisfied comeback.

“For starters, Ryder . . . you can take off your shirt.”

For several blank but very long moments, all Scott can do is . . . stare.

Then gape.

Then shake his head.

Then stare some more.

He tells himself to back the rest of the way over the threshold, but his feet feel as if they’re rooted. And his chest no longer feels clogged and claustrophobic, but full of sparks and bright, burning helium.

Even so . . . this day, this _moment_ can’t be real—can’t be happening. It must be a dream, or a hallucination that’s happening to a Scott who’s gone catatonic with agony. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He’s probably unconscious and drooling on the floor of his quarters, right now. Maybe on the cusp of death, if he’d hit his head hard enough on the way down.

But the flesh directly over his heart feels seared and almost icy for the sudden and escalating thrills skating all over his sensitive nociceptors. It _hurts_ but still so differently than what Scott’s become used to.

This is no hallucination or dream.

By the time Scott’s advanced to making word-like sounds, Reyes has completely closed the distance between them, and . . . he isn’t the only one.

Behind Scott, the door closes with a near-silent whoosh. He and Reyes stare at each other until Reyes deftly—without even the faintest pressure to Scott’s flesh and without breaking that eye-contact—begins unfastening Scott’s no-color over-shirt.

They both watch the shirt flutter to the floor in silence, then look up at each other again. Scott doesn’t know what to say and Reyes seems a bit hesitant to speak.

But, then, Reyes is nothing if not daring.

“Can you tolerate me also undoing your armor? Or would you prefer to undo it yourself?” he asks. His voice is calm, not shaking even a little, but it sounds like _effort_. His gaze is so bright and hopeful, _Scott_ couldn’t look away _even_ if he wanted to.

He opens his mouth then closes it again, instantly. Then another snorting giggle burbles out of him like a belch, loud and unflattering and lame.

Grabbing and maintaining a hold of himself, Scott shakes his head and shrugs. Then, when his vision grows alarmingly blurry, he wipes at the tears streaming down his cheeks with bemusement. He has no idea why his confused and unfortunate body has decided to _cry_ , of all things. But that body’s done far worse things to him than _tears_ and far more often, in recent memory. So, he’s not going to freak out over some lost saline.

Especially since for once . . . the tears figuratively _and_ literally _do not hurt_.

“Uh. Together? On three? _Three_ ,” he adds, breathless and almost stammering as he gestures to the fastens at his left shoulder—like the right shoulder, it’s one of few dead-zones where, when the agony is _bad_ , Scott can still tolerate the slight, but extra pressure/weight of fastens—then undoes the right shoulder with ease. Reyes carefully follows Scott’s example at the left shoulder. His clever fingers are bright whispers of warmth that don’t even graze a single inch of revealed skin when the left sleeve is laid open. The same is true of the underarm fastens.

The possibility of human touch is still seductive to Scott even now. Even after years of trying to train himself out of that habit and its attendant tells—and so many other habits and tells he’s become unable to afford—Scott wants to lean into Reyes Vidal. To _initiate the kind of skin-to-skin contact_ that he hasn’t had since the first and last time Reyes had touched him almost five years ago.

He wants that _so_ badly.

The only thing that stops him from leaping at that longed-for _touch_ isn’t willpower—Scott can’t lie to himself about that and doesn’t even try—but that he can think of _nothing_ he wants to do less in this moment than unexpectedly crumple into a ball of writhing, mewling agony and anguish on the floor _in front of Reyes Vidal_. Again.

Doing so even just once had been . . . more than too much. It had destroyed him in ways he doesn’t care to revisit.

When the front and back sections of his under-armor hang from the final two final fastens at his right and left hip—two more precious, relative _dead-zones_ even at his agonized worst—Reyes’s graceful hand hovers hesitantly near his heart.

Scott swallows and takes another of those steadying breaths that actually lives up to the name. And that breath clears out a lot of worthless, counterproductive fog and despair. He realizes that he must do this. Must be strong enough and have hope enough right now, to risk what little peace his life affords him. Not because he’s that desperate . . . though he _is_. But because he’s never wanted anything else more or for so _torturously_ long. And to _not_ fight for what and who he . . . _loves_ , is the very antithesis of not just _Old_ -Scott Ryder, but of _all_ Scott Ryders.

If ever there has been a moment to fight for who he is and what he wants . . . it might as well be _this moment_. And for as many moments thereafter as he can manage.

Scott _wants_ that hand, wants _any_ part of Reyes Vidal to touch any— _every_ —part of him. And if the cost of that touch is agony then Scott is willing to take that trade-off as necessary even at twice the pain-price. And _take it_ until he can overcome it or sneak around it.

(Once upon a Scott, he had been _insanely good_ at that former, and no slouch at the latter.)

“T-Touch me,” he commands, shivering and shaking for several moments after he does so. Reyes’s distracting lips stop their silent, repetitious moving and his triumphant and _relieved_ eyes drift up from whatever’s written on Scott’s chest. He makes the kind of eye-contact Scott can feel as keenly as physical touch. The shivering and shaking intensifies. “Touch me _right now_ and don’t _ever_ stop.”

“Yes. I will,” Reyes reassures him with the sobering ring of an oath made. Then he smirks again, but it’s relaxed enough that it might just be a _very_ contented smile. “Eventually, and for as long as you want, whenever you want. But for now, at least . . . baby-steps?”

“I, um . . . yeah. I can do those,” Scott agrees eagerly, blushing as his shivers and shakes lessen. Stop. Reyes’s fingertips light over his heart, warm and callused, tender and electrifying. As gentle as feathers, they test and tease and _torment_ , but in a purely wonderful way.

They _feeeeel_. . . .

Not even a little discomfiting. _Not even leaning_ in the direction of unpleasant.

“ _Shit_ , Vidal, I almost came in my fucking under-armor!” Scott hitches out, wide-eyed and with a jagged laugh. He is _achingly_ hard and would be tenting out his trou if not for the under-armor. And yet, he has no idea how he got here without even a dram of the usual friction-based agony of _anything at all making and maintaining physical contact with his hypersensitive dick_.

Reyes’s smile becomes a smirk again and he waggles his eyebrows a little. Another relieved-dumb giggle-snort bubbles out of Scott.

“Don’t laugh, jerk! It’s the last clean set I’ve got till laundry-day—otherwise known as _to-day_ , if you keep this up!”

Still looking fantastically unsympathetic about Scott’s jumped-forward laundry-schedule, Reyes teases and traces his own words—graven over Scott’s enthusiastic heart—with gleeful and reverent possessiveness. Then with entranced certainty when Scott doesn’t so much as flinch or wince or gasp.

Rather . . . when Scott’s _eventual_ gasping is clearly not about discomfort _at all_.

“Hmm, does any of that mean I should pause, for now . . . until laundry-day has safely come and gone?”

“Fuck, _no_ , it _doesn’t_ mean that. Not unless you _wanna_ get N7-murdered in three-two- _dead_.”

That’s good for a playful-dangerous flash of those steady, bright eyes. They’re amused and warm and _fond_. So breathtakingly fond. Scott swallows around any other defensive jokes and tries on a small smile. And some vulnerability, while he’s at it.

“It doesn’t hurt, Reyes. _Really_. So . . . don’t stop? Just . . . _don’t stop_ ,” Scott pleads, soft and shameless . . . broken-open and with tears still running down his face even after his eyes close. On the backs of his eyelids, is the entire Andromeda Galaxy. Pulsing and thriving to the beat of his heart. “ _Please_. It’s been so long since touch _didn’t hurt._ You’re a fucking _miracle_ , I swear. . ..”

Reyes makes a quiet, but gut-punched sound, and his playful fingertips drift away. To be immediately replaced by his _lips_. Scott doesn’t even have time to fully register the switch-up before he’s fighting another startling near-orgasm.

When he has himself in hand, so to speak, he settles carefully into the lovely stimulus that is Reyes Vidal touching him. _Kissing_ the spot where his heart beats.

Kissing it and kissing it and _kissing it_. And then kissing it _some more_.

He kisses Scott’s _heart_ . . . and he kisses-it- _better_.

And then kisses-it-better some more.

“I _can and do_ promise that I will keep touching you however much you want and whenever you want. Though, I _also_ promise to pause at least once in a while to let your body acclimate and to . . . check in with you. To make certain that we’re on still the same wavelength. I will do my best to always have that in mind. Always.” The wet tickle of Reyes’s tongue across his nipple makes Scott low-key shriek and nearly come in his under-armor _yet again_.

This particular Reyes-chuckle is way more smug and wicked than any of his _smirks_ are. Said chuckle—and the vibrations it sends through him—is officially one of the _best_ things Scott has ever experienced. Second only to Reyes’s tongue _anywhere_ on him.

“R-Right. _Yeah_ ,” he concurs as his eyes fall shut. He raises shaking, nervous, gloved hands that settle lightly on Reyes’s shoulders, then barely bites back a soft, startled-happy squeak as Reyes aims his lips and tongue nipple-ward again. And focuses like a fucking _laser_. “B-Baby-steps and wavelength-checking. I’m down for that, Vidal. _Sooooo_ down. . . .”

“Fantastic, Ryder. Progress by any other name,” Reyes murmurs over Scott’s accelerated heartbeat, casual and innocent. And as if he’s _not_ swirling that talented tongue around Scott’s nipple with the obvious goal of making today a laundry- _Day,_ _for-real_.

But Reyes is never one to neglect or forget a classic—even in pursuit of his singular goals. Nor is he one to shy away from blending those classics with some innovative, bold new moves.

Now, he once more traces and retraces his own words, which have blossomed on the skin over Scott’s cautiously excited heart. He does so with the tantalizing tip of that gifted tongue. Then, he repeats those words to the heart they’ve claimed . . . like the sharing of the sweetest and most thrilling secret of all:

“You _occupy this entire heart, Scott Ryder. Only you: ascendant and unchallenged._ Irreplaceable _. And you always will_.”

* * *

… do you hear?

signal or sound from inside.

are you here?

here?

here?

here?

i am calling you now to come and find me….

**Author's Note:**

>  **[PROMPTS]**  
>   
>  There are three:  
> “A scream,” chosen by [Littleleotas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleleotas/pseuds/littleleotas) from [Speccygeekgrrl](https://www.pillowfort.social/speccygeekgrrl)’s [the way you said "I love you" prompt list](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1577239).  
>   
> [GingerAnn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerAnn/profile)’s wonderful ficlet, [Complications](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27405391), in which: _Your soulmate's first thought about you is written on your skin after you meet_ , was prompt and inspiration  
>   
> And this picture prompt, [#99](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1855558), from [15MinuteFics](https://www.pillowfort.social/community/15MinuteFics/) kicked my ass into gear. All my thanks.  
>   
>   
>   
>   
>  **Further thanks :**  
>   
> To anyone giving this a read (and hopefully a comment and/or kudo :-).  
>   
>   
>   
>  **Resources & References for this fic:**  
>   
> Mass Effect Wiki at FANDOM  
> Google  
> Wikipedia  
>   
>   
>   
>  **Powered by :**  
>   
> [The Three Trees](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDZSuw00OZ3bahNEEaDV3zpjwKep4zAMo) Playlist, but especially  
> [Shana Falana](https://Shanafalana.com)’s [Come and Find Me](https://youtu.be/briUFONdCjs)  
>   
>   
>   
> [TUMBLES with the bug](http://beetle-stans.tumblr.com)! And [PILLOWFORTS with the bug, too](https://www.pillowfort.io/beetle-comma-the)!


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